Public Training Sessions!

Waiting, waiting, waiting. Tick-ti-… Tick-ti-… The imperfect half-tick of the broken pocket-watch is driving me insane. The impurity was a mockery of a token to take into the Games with me, I should throw it whilst I still can. I would, if it weren’t all I have left of home. I stare at the foggy glass of the wretched thing, hating how the second-hand glitches between eight and nine seconds. It’s such a parody of everything I stand for, such a dirty thing. The way it captures a little pocket of time suggests that I’ll always be waiting here, like time is frozen and it will never be my session in that training room. I turn the watch over and over in my palm, trying to make time go faster. The waiting is painful, but endurance is something I need to learn early.

I’ve been working hard these last few days, more so than when I began. Getting people on my side was my first priority, before then training myself up. I’ve always been confident in my own abilities, so it was natural that I first went to establish some form of a pact with another group of kids. Even though I’m not part of a ‘gang’, I still feel like an outsider. Peridot, Kiera and Atlas are Careers, less so Kiera, but both the boys have been training to break necks since before they could walk. They’re ruthless and so well built that I consider it somewhat of a surprise that they took me in as an ally. Then again, who wouldn’t want me? I’m perfect.

At least I can go into this session knowing that no matter the score, I’ll still have people on my side. I’m convinced that I’ll achieve perfection as always in my display run, my trial per-sae. I’ll be judged, but that doesn’t phase me, because all I’ve ever done in my life is show off. The Careers will no doubt be disappointed with anything below an eight, and they expect the same from me, so I’ll need to push myself. I’m used to forcing myself to work when I have nothing left. I call it ‘going into the black’, when I’m empty, but something still spurs me to keep going. Countless hours in my blacksmith forge, crafting and bashing away at molten metal, creating beautiful works… Many times I was exhausted, but kept going in sight of a grail. I suspect that I’ll push myself too far again tonight.

“Wednesdae Drummond, District Nine” Rings the voice of the Capitol woman. Her job is as simple as reading my name from a list. I bet she hasn’t done a real day’s work in all her life. Her gentle face and warm smile is a little creepy, like it’s a doctor’s appointment more than me exploring different ways to kill people. I shrug, pushing myself to my feet and walking over to her. The waiting is over, even if I can still hear the half-tick of the broken watch, which I now slip in to my pocket so that I may forget about it, my time has come. I push through the slim glass doors and into the expanse of the training center.

The complex is as I remember: Perfect. A stainless-steel paradise of angles and lines, colors that match and well-placed pillars. I love this room, it would be my honor to perform such artistry in here. Sure enough, they have lined out a series of dummies as I requested, along with a weapon rack. I’ve opted to keep this simple. I’m a pretty one-minded guy, my strategy is kill or be killed, so I need display my strengths, the main pro being that I’m very good at combat. Over the years I have built myself from countless hours of labor in that forge, I am well-fed and toned. I have strength, something that few others have. I need to use that.

I also contemplate showing what I’ve learned, in addition to what I am best at. What did I learn? I know how to be more careful and remain hidden, in addition to maximizing my weapon output and foraging for food in the wild. I learned medicinal uses of plants and I can patch myself up pretty good too. I can’t cram all of that into one tiny display, and even if I did, it would be boring. I need to show one thing, and hope that they take the rest of my skills for granted. They’re more likely to mark me high to sheer brutality, so I finalize that my decision should be to be vicious.

I walk across the spotless tiles, hearing my footsteps echo through the entire room. The Gamemakers catch my eye, all standing around talking, digging into what looks a delicious banquet, even by the Capitol’s standards. Their talk is murmured, quiet and hushed as though they recognize my presence. One or two point to me, blabbering to the nearest person what little opinion they have already formed. All they know is that I am a volunteer. Maybe they assess my size? Are they sizing me up to see how I would fare in a fist fight? I can’t read the thought processes of these strange, but elegant people, so I will just have to push on without thinking about their constantly reforming opinions.

I approach the center spot, marked on the ground with a small black cross. I stand, feet very close together, and address my lords and masters.
“Wednesdae Drummond, District Nine Male.” I say officially and crisply. They seem to all nod, as if approving me, agreeing that this is indeed my name, and it is my turn to shine. I turn with their permission to the weapon rack, assessing my options.

I like swords. I forge swords a lot, they’re used by many different kinds of people and always sell well at the workshop. I have a lot of experience with using swords - My father taught me how to parry at a young age, call it a hobby, if you like. Over the years I have become increasingly good at sword fighting - I just question my ability to go sword-to-mace or sword-to-axe. I don’t have as much experience in that area. I eye up the axe, double sided and large, with a decorated black handle. It looks heavy and dangerous, a bad combination. I have less experience with axes - I used to woodcut every now and again, but that was a different kind of axe. I’ve forged a few, but not so much used them. Then there are a few spears, which again I lack experience with. How hard can they be to use? I’m alright with a sparring pole, I use that often when practicing with my father on weekends. How different is a pole to a spear?

After much contemplation, I decide to go with the spear. I reach out and gently touch the cold metal of the long pole, it sends a sensation through me. With keen eyes watching me, I take the spear in both hands, noting that it only has one blade at the tip of the pole. I hold the rubber handle, the grip is somewhat alien to me as I’ve only ever used a straight metal pole in sparring. This is new, but could be an improvement. I tighten my grip as I turn to the dummies, watching those Gamemakers in the corner of my eye. Will they like me? Will they judge me on every error I make? What if they think I’m too narrow minded? That combat is my only trait? I’m getting too worked up about this. I need to calm down, focus on what I learned. Achieve nothing short of perfection.

I can do this.

I take a deep breath, walking slowly to the first dummy. I have the Gamemakers full attention, I can’t mess up this first move, else they’ll think me a fool. First impressions, and all that. Just like training, I remind myself. Just like sparring with Dad on a weekend. I take a quick step forward and whirl around on my front foot, bringing the spear in a diagonal slash downwards at the dummy. It’s arm is struck and fluff powders out in snow. I don’t stop, jabbing the fake tribute in the stomach with the blade, twirling majestically to the next dummy, who I slice in the face a few times before switching to stab another in the eye. I surround myself with the representations of what will be my enemies, not letting my guard down. I slip my hands further down each end of the pole and strike a dummy on the forehead with the handle of the spear, dazzling it. I throw the blade up and bring it down in a swipe to the neck. Fatal blow after fatal blow.

This is boring. Let’s shake things up a bit.

I hold the spear in one hand now - My left hand. My stronger hand. Brown eyes flicker over to the edible plants section, where a garden of medicinal herbs and toxic berries circle a large tree. Between me and the station are several dummies, all standing statue still. I line myself up with one, keeping my tempo up all the while and breaking into a jog. I control my footing with a one-two-three, leaning back on my left foot with the third step and arching my arm and back, launching the spear at a near ten degree angle, watching it pierce through the air and cascade through the dummy, pinning it to the tree. I break into a forward roll and run at the dead tribute, grabbing my spear firmly and yanking it out.

So tired. Lactic acid fills my legs as they refuse to go on. I must go through the black, as I said. I can’t let exhaustion get to me. I am a fit, young man with a lot of strength, they need to see just how long I will survive physically in the arena if they are to get a good idea of how I will fare. I just hope they take into consideration my size and speed.

So my aim is good. Now I need to show I am good with plants. Spear in both hands, I roll into the undergrowth of the tree, becoming one with the shadows. I stay low and keep my breathing quiet and as still as possible. My hand searches through the variety of berries and bulbs, looking for that particular plant I’ve been reading about. I find something that feels familiar and pull the bright purple flower to my face. Yes, this is it. Toxic. I dab the tip of the spear in the pollen, making sure I am slightly more visible as I do this, so that the Gamemakers can see what I am doing, whilst still understanding that I am trying to be stealthy. Slowly I rise, taking cover behind the tree.

Patience. Wait for it. Now. I jump out with my venom covered blade, slashing at the dummies ferociously, cutting and poisoning the faux people with a series of jabs and swipes. In a large, powerful movement I even manage to decapitate one of the dummies. This is where I stop, standing over the head of the last tribute. My foot stands on the scarecrow head, I am panting, but standing victorious. My lungs scream for oxygen, my heart punches at my chest. I am empty. I have nothing left to give. Was it enough? Was it good enough?

It felt perfect, yet I have no idea how it looked. All I can do is bow in a blur of movement, not even able to speak to the people who will ultimately decide how much sponsor money I get. My mind is all over the room, I think I even stumble on my way out as all I can think about is getting back to my room. Tick-Ti-... Tick-Ti... It won't ever stop, bleeding into my mind in this wasteland between me and those doors, stretching further away. So numb. Is it a high? A success that has driven me to this strange ecstasy? Or is it some sick realization that I'm just not good enough?

I push through the doors and out of sight, collapsing onto the bench that I was waiting on before. I lean, panting and sweating. My body wants to throw up, get rid of all of this deliciously sickening food, get it out my system. I hold down the expensive food, each rejection of vomit sends a repulsive shiver through my body. I take the watch out my pocket and slam it onto the bench, staring at the quivering hand that taunts me. Doubt fills me, it is worse than the most cruel of truths. What if it’s not good enough, and the Careers don’t want me with them anymore? What if I’m the impurity? Never.

It was fucking perfect.

it's like a bad dream
something from the back of a magazine
black and white
and cheaply put together